


autodidacts in love

by thatshalfunlikely



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Canon Trans Character, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatshalfunlikely/pseuds/thatshalfunlikely
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is an MI6 asset using his cover as a restaurateur to infiltrate a French gang—if only his brother would stop getting in the way.Miss Hudson is a brilliant scholar and one-time socialite who mostly makes her living as a housekeeper—at least for now.When a chance encounter at the brownstone brings them together, neither is looking for a companion. But as danger builds, an alliance forms. Could they be each other's next adventure?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes/Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes/Ms. Hudson (Elementary)
Kudos: 1





	autodidacts in love

She was more than a muse, he could tell. What kind of job description was that, anyway? She was smirking as she said it, but despite being professionally trained to analyze a potential asset’s agenda, he couldn’t quite read her yet. Was it an ironic comment from a newly self-kept woman? Or was it a dare from someone who knew exactly what she was about to become to him?

“What about you?” Her question interrupted his. “How did you say you know Sherlock?” Before he could answer, her eyes drifted toward the paper bags he held in each hand, weighed down with produce. “Don’t tell me. You’re the brother? The restaurateur?” He was suddenly grateful he’d gone to the market for fresh supplies, rather than bringing the leftovers from the stockroom at Diogenes. He smiled and nodded.

“Sherlock mentioned I was in town?” Mycroft should’ve figured he couldn’t surprise his brother anymore, but having made the trip across the pond with the Special Air Service, this particular deduction would have consequences.

“No, Sherlock and I don’t discuss personal matters,” Miss Hudson demurred. “I wouldn’t know if he had a conjoined twin, let alone an estranged brother. But Joan mentioned you.”

He blushed. Then he blushed at his blushing.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It was a rave review. I’m just grateful to have caught your encore appearance as the brownstone’s personal chef.”

His hands were getting sweaty. He readjusted the paper bags.

Noticing his unease, Miss Hudson played the graceful hostess. “Please, let’s get you set up in the kitchen,” she said, beckoning him to follow her into the next room.

Mycroft was surprised to find counter space on which to set the bags down at all, knowing his brother’s distaste for washing dishes. As he unpacked the vegetables, Miss Hudson pulled a stepstool over to the kitchen cabinet. He kept his eyes trained directly on his paring knife, but his ears were attuned to the soft clap of her heels against the rungs as she climbed toward the top shelf. He assured himself it was simply his training kicking in as he observed the incongruity of such strong, shapely calves and such suave, quiet steps. He assured himself that meditating on this question was not at all going to interfere with his ability to produce a simple ratatouille. He assured himself that the muse at his right would be satisfied with such a plain meal. What had possessed him to cook French peasant food that night, of all things? Was he that distracted by the dirty looks he’d been weathering from Le Milieu’s corner of the restaurant?

“How many settings should I prepare?” Miss Hudson asked, too cordial to be wry.

Startled, Mycroft allowed himself to peer upwards and catch her eye. “Four, of course,” he answered. “I already know Sherlock and Joan’s opinions of my cooking, so if you don’t stay, I won’t have anyone to try to impress.”

“You can most certainly count on my judgment,” Miss Hudson replied, smiling. Gathering four plates, she began to climb back down, nimble and calm as ever despite what she knew to be nigh-on priceless porcelain in her manicured hands.

Wait—since when did Sherlock own china? And why did Miss Hudson know where to find it?

“You know, when I first reorganized the kitchen, I suggested that Sherlock keep the china at eye level so he might enjoy using it more often,” Miss Hudson narrated as she began to set the table. “In the end, he didn’t share my philosophy about finding a little room for luxury in the everyday. But to his credit, he always appreciates any system organized on principle.”

“I’m not surprised at my brother’s disdain for the finer things in life,” Mycroft laughed, glancing over the painfully spare spice rack for inspiration. “But I admit I’m surprised at how he chose to put you to work. I was under the impression that his consultants generally help him with cases, not chores.”

“Oh, I’m not one of his Irregulars,” Miss Hudson clarified. “At least, not at the moment. It’s been quite some time since he has called on my expertise in Ancient Greek. He actually hired me to clean the brownstone every week.”

Typical Sherlock. Surrounded by brilliant, beautiful women whom he somehow managed to trick into menial domestic tasks. First Joan, a former surgeon monitoring his addiction triggers. Now Miss Hudson, a classicist putting away his dishes. What was it they saw in him?

She must have seen his brow furrow. “To be honest, I think he’d have been fine with leaving the place a mess,” she said, folding cloth napkins she’d apparently conjured out of yet another hardly-disturbed drawer. “But he knew I was looking for good, safe work, and he offered it to me when I needed it without even thinking twice. He’s a good friend that way.”

Friend. There was that word again. First Joan, now Miss Hudson…. Since when did he have so many of those?

“I’m glad to hear it,” he mustered.

“Are you?” she surprised him.

Having placed the vegetables in the oven to roast, Mycroft found himself suddenly without stage business to keep his hands occupied. He turned away from the counter to face her. “For your sake, of course I am. Though you’re right to observe that I’m still trying to make sense of the idea that Sherlock has friends.”

“Well, I know a thing or two about messy relationships,” Miss Hudson replied, also newly without occupation as she had finished transforming the rough workspace into a glittering dining table. Locking eyes, she told him, “And no matter what I’m told, I still maintain that they are the only ones worth having.”

As Mycroft fought off more unwelcome blushes, his pondering was interrupted by the scratches of Sherlock and Joan breaking into their own home. Saved by the lockpick.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Elementary s02e21, "The Man with the Twisted Lip."
> 
> P.S. this is my first ever fic! I'm excited to be here!! :)


End file.
